Creative Titles are Overrated(Reposted)
by NAL165
Summary: Mark finds a girl in an alley and brings her home. Could she be the newest bohemian. Set during events of RENT and a lil preRENT
1. Author's Note

AUTHORS NOTE: Hey all. Sorry I have not updated "creative titles are overrated" in a while. I have had a lot of personal issues going on and it has not been easy to write. So, I have about 6 chapters to put up now and will do so over the next few days IF I CAN. I will also start over because I think I have the story on a different account. Thanks for your understanding! Love ya


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer—Hey guys! This is my second story that I have put on . The first one is called Looking into the Abyss. If after reading this, you are interested, here is the link:  s/8025913/1/Looking_into_the_abyss. Anyway, back to this story. It is based off the movie RENT, which I have watched three times this weekend. It is such an inspirational movie and makes me cry every time. Also, I do not own RENT or anything in it. I only own part of the plot and my OC. Enjoy! (Please if you do feedback no negativity. I am only writing this for fun.)

**My backstory/ being saved**

Damn New York City weather. The temperatures are either really cold or extremely hot; never in the middle. The winters here make the frozen tundra look like a weekend in the Caribbean, especially at night. I rub my hands together to try and generate some warmth, and get some feeling back in my hands. They have been dead and frozen for the past three hours. I blow a little into them, then rub, blow, then rub. I have fallen into a very monotonous pattern. If I had the ability to wiggle my feet, I would do that too, but the odds are not with me; instead they sit uselessly limp.

However, this is not new for me. I have been living this way for a very long time; twelve years and counting. My home is away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Well, I highly doubt you could really consider it a home. A home is a place you feel safe and loved; not an alley in probably one of the poorest neighborhoods in NYC; alphabet city. Bohemia as it is called; full of starving artists and broken dreams. It may not be the best living arrangement, but it will have to do for now.

By now you are probably wondering what happened that made me have to live on the streets. Well, I'll tell you; it was nothing I did. My parents, sorry, the heartless people who I used to be forced to live with, kicked me out. The two people who were supposed to love me and care for me threw me out like I was trash on the street. You see, I have health issues, and my mom and dad couldn't take it. I was diagnosed with a virus called viral encephalitis when I was fifteen months old. It is a virus that attacks your brain, and luckily for me, it affected my motor functions. That was both sarcasm and not. It wasn't because it could have been much worse, like affecting my talking or hearing. On the other hand, the reason it was sarcasm is because it still stinks because I was in a wheelchair and actually close to dying.

I was in the hospital for a while before I got discharged. My parents weren't very well off to start off with, so being in the hospital and receiving the treatment I needed was a major blow to their finances. Even after I got out, I needed to go back as an outpatient for PT. Over time I got better, and now I walk with leg braces and forearm crutches. These were included in the things I got to bring when I was 'evicted'. That and some clothes and anything I could fit in a backpack. How nice of them to let me bring along some stuff, but leave me on the streets to get beaten up by gangs every single flipping day.

Anyway, back to the story. When I constantly had to go and get treatment, that was a lot of money that my parents told me when they kicked me out they had wasted on me. The state barely helped with the cost, maybe about one hundred dollars for twenty four thousand dollar treatment.

For a while, my parent played the part of loving and supportive human beings. Then, after about a year, they transformed for the worst. They turned into the horrible monsters they are today. When I no longer had to use a wheelchair anymore, I was beaten by my parents almost every day for the most stupid things. And I was really young, so they were small, trivial things. Like not picking up my toys or for simply existing. Somehow, they were so convinced that my getting sick was my own fault. Finally, they just threw me out and told me never to come back, EVER. Their abuse and the teasing I got around the city for being a 'mutated freak' has caused me to become a mute.

After all this crap has happened to me, one day stands out for me as a ray of hope. I was wandering around one day when I was about twelve, and met a nice man named Angel, who was a transvestite. She was the only person I have encountered in this city that didn't want to hurt me, and didn't call me names. Whenever she talked to me, she used names like sweetheart and honey, which my parents never did. Their names for me were mistake and worthless. Angel taught me sign language which helped me a lot. She was very kind and understanding, and never pushed me to talk. She lives somewhere around here, and is a street drummer a few blocks away. But she never wears drag when she performs. She visits me sometimes and I really look forward to it. Unfortunately, she can't very often because she is either out drumming or ill. She told me how she has AIDS and her immune system isn't so good anymore. A cold for a normal person could really hurt her.

She is the only person who has ever accepted me for me because she knows what it is like to be different. She knows what it is like to be laughed at. I admire her so much for her strength and wish that I had even a little of it.

Just thinking of Angel brings a smile to my face. While I am reminiscing, three very tough looking guys walk up to me. I stare wide- eyed at them, hoping they will leave me alone for just one day. All I ask is for one day not to be beaten within an inch of my life. But no; fate is not kind, it never is. They tackle me to the ground and kick and punch me into delirium. From enduring twelve years of this, I don't squirm. I do however cry out a little as one of the men gets on top of me and starts feeling me up. He gives me an evil smirk as he undoes the buttons on my shirt, and lifts it over my head. He starts to do the zipper on my pants when something stops him.

"Hey! Get off her!" someone yells from the other end of the alley. In my semi- delirious state, I hear the thugs flee the scene and the man approach. I am barely hanging onto consciousness as he reaches me. I am already really weak because I haven't been eating much, and now this on top of it all. He kneels down next to me so he is on my level.

"Can you hear me?" he asks, gently, shaking me. I nod, and he lets out a sigh of relief. I open my eyes and look at him. He has blonde- red hair that is spiked in the front, piercing blue eyes behind black thick rimmed glasses and a navy and white striped scarf wrapped tightly around his neck to keep out the NY chill. He has a worried expression as he takes inventory of the various cuts, bruises, scars and probably my overly thin body.

"Here," he says, handing me the shirt the guy tore off. I accept it happily and put it on. I then sign _thank you. _

"You don't talk?" he asks. Sadly, I shake my head. He looks at me sympathetically. "C'mon," he says, tugging me up with him. I probably look as frightened as I feel because he explains.

"I am taking you back to my place so I can clean you up, get you warmth and some food," he says the last part frowning at me. I back away, not willing to go home with him. I know he saved me and all, but maybe it was just so he could get me to trust him.

"You can trust me. I promise I won't hurt you. I just want to help you. By the way; do I look that threatening?" he asks. It was true; he looked about the farthest thing from it. He was thin, scrawny, and didn't look like he could hold his own in a fight with those thugs that well. I shake my head at the last question, but still keep my distance. He approaches me, and I flinch back. He wraps his arms around me and gives me a hug. I am slightly taken back by his action, not being hugged since my wonderful parents gave me the boot. I hug him back hesitantly. When we pull apart, he adjusts his glasses. "Please let me help you," he asks, holding his hand out for me to take. I do, and he helps me off the cold pavement. I then remember my crutches, and let go of his hand to stumble the little way to get them. I almost fall, being so unsteady, but he catches me.

"Whoa, careful there," he says, steadying me. I give a sheepish smile, and slip me arms into the crutches. Then, I let him lead the way to their apartment.

So, this was the end of chapter 1! Most of the chapters will be this length or longer, so if you don't like reading long- chapter stories, don't read this one. Hope you enjoyed this. No flames please.


	3. Chapter 2

**The Loft/Meeting Roger**

So this is chapter 2 of my awesome RENT story! (Applause) thank you, thank you. Anyway, plz review and I do not own RENT or characters. I do own my OC and part of the plot. Enjoy chapter 2.

As we walk to the loft, the man tells me more about himself. I learned his name is Mark Cohen, he lives with his roommate Roger who is a musician and he is an aspiring filmmaker. I nodded my head occasionally to show I was paying attention. It didn't take us that long to get to the loft. When Mark opened the door, the first thing I saw was stairs, stairs and more stairs. I started going up them the best I could but I didn't go too fast. However, Mark waited for me at the top.  
_ 'Thank you'_ I signed to him. He gave me a soft smile. He then got the door for me. When we got in, the place was pretty big. There wasn't much furniture, which probably gave the illusion it was bigger than it actually is. They had a kitchen, bathroom, living area and bedrooms. Also, the most beautiful window I have ever seen, overlooking the city. What may be shabby and run down to them was  
oddly breathtaking for me. I guess after life on the streets for so long, any place would be a step up.  
"Nice place huh?" Mark says from next to me. I was so mesmerized, I forgot he was there. I jumped about five feet in the air. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he apologizes. I shake my head and sign _'It's ok.'_ I look around some more, and see a man with shoulder length blonde hair, a band t shirt and jeans and a guitar across his  
lap. He seems to be really into strumming, so I leave him be. It doesn't matter really because Mark goes to talk to him anyway. They conversed for a while before Mark came back over.  
"I would like for you to meet someone," he says. He steers me over to the man on the couch. "This is Roger," he says, indicating by gesturing. I give him a shy wave.  
"Hey," Roger says to me, not really looking up from what he is doing. I wonder what the song was called he was playing. When Roger does glance up, a look of shock crosses his face. At first I am confused, but then I remember I am beat up pretty good.  
"I'm helping her; she just got mugged," Mark says to Roger's look. He then gently grabs my wrist and leads me into the bathroom. I bring my crutches along with me. He then closes the door and sits me on the edge of the bathtub. He gets out the first aid kit, and rummages around for supplies. While he is doing that, I am thinking about how compassionate Mark is, and how I should thank him.  
"Well, let's see the damage," Mark says, crouched in front of me. Judging by my face being really sore and my ribs feeling as if they are on fire, I think it is a good amount of bruises and cuts he is gonna find. He gives me a worried look as he inspects me. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze.  
"Most of these bruises look like they have been fading for a while before. Does this happen a lot?" he asks, sounding like a worried parent. I nod, and look down. I am ashamed I have let this happen so many times. I am ashamed I can't defend myself, and keep letting them beat me senseless. I let a few silent tears slip out before I can stop them. I try hastily to wipe them away before Mark sees; unfortunately, he does.  
"Hey, it's ok. I've been mugged on many occasions as well. Probably not as many as you, but still too many I would like to remember. I know how you feel like you should have done something to stop it, and probably feel ashamed," Mark says, rubbing my back as he talks, trying to calm me down. He is very good at it, telling me he must do so a lot. I look up in amazement how he summed up my thoughts perfectly.  
Mark gets to work, putting disinfectant on the cuts and bandaging them. The most I have is severe bruising, which will fade like they always do. The only thing I didn't get from being mugged are slash marks on my left wrist. These I have made myself, and I started a little while after my parent's physical and verbal abuse started. I hoped Mark didn't see them, and think I was suicidal. I nonchalantly tried to hide my wrist from view, but the move was too sudden and he noticed.  
"Well, what do we have here?" he asks. He reaches out and grabs my wrist, while I try to pull it back. However, he is too strong and has quicker reflexes, so he catches my wrist. He turns it over, and looks at the marks. His face is sympathetic as he runs his fingers over the raised lines.  
"As long as you are living here, this," he points to the lines "is not allowed," he states. I go to nod, but then the last part sinks in. Living there?! When did anyone ever say I was gonna move in? I have no money to help pay rent. Maybe I could find a job. Who would hire a useless cripple like me? Oh my gosh, I have to get out of this, I think frantically. I shake my head frantically, my eyes probably the size of saucers. I am getting really tired of not being able to communicate. I get an idea and pantomime writing on a pad of paper. Mark seems to get it because he comes back with a pen and paper.  
** 'I can't live here; you barely know me. I am just intruding on you, and I can just go back to living how I was living,'** I write, and then hand the pad to Mark. He quickly reads it and then hands back the pad.  
"You are not going back to living on the streets, eating out of garbage cans and fighting to stay warm," he says, in a tone that suggests no room for argument, but I have to try anyway.  
** 'It's no big deal. I have been doing it for so long I don't even notice. And I don't eat out of garbage cans, no matter how desperate.' **I write.  
"How long exactly? And how do you get food?" he asks, genuinely curious. I don't want to tell him the truth, he would probably flip. I decide to lie instead.  
** 'Only a few weeks, and I am a pickpocket.'** I tell him. The good thing is since I don't talk, my voice can't betray me, and give away the lie. He seems unconvinced though.  
"You are lying; I know it. Your eyes kept shifting around, and your hand shook as you wrote," he tells me, crossing his arms. "Please, the truth this time would be nice," he finishes. I sigh, prepared to tell him.  
** 'Fine; don't flip out. I have been there for twelve years, and I rarely eat, if ever.'** I confess. He looks astounded, for lack of a better word.  
"TWELVE YEARS!? What happened?" he asks, shocked.  
'My parents kicked me out. When I trust you better I will tell you the whole story.' write. Mark adjusts his glasses to sit more comfortably on his nose before reading it.  
"Oh, wow that sucks. I'm really sorry, especially because of your condition," he says sheepishly, not wanting to offend me.  
_ 'Thanks.'_ I simply say. He helps me off the edge of the tub, and we walk into the living area. I sit down on the couch next to Roger, and my crutches by the wall. Mark goes into the kitchen for something. I put my head in my hands, completely defeated. Hopefully my life will turn around.


End file.
